


affection grows like moss; slowly

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [88]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, friends to rivals to grudging companions to whatever the hell they've become at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 07:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20170279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: “Respectfully,sir,” Hermann cuts in, raising his chin; not quite glaring at Geiszler, by the Marshal’s side, but—close.“Geiszler and I are—”“Acquainted,” the biologist says, with a wink and a flourish of his arms—oh, god, he’s gone and got atattoo,garish and dreadful; no,multipletattoos, andkaiju,at that—"been a while,Herms.“ He wiggles his fingers at Hermann; tone, mockingly friendly.





	affection grows like moss; slowly

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Prompt: What a foolish thing to do, to fall in love with Newton Geiszler, the man who loved monsters more than his own life."

The summer of 2017 begins with Hermann in high hopes; his mind bursting with excitement at finally meeting Doctor Newton Geiszler.

It ends with the sharp sting of words; Newton—_Geiszler,_ now, he reminds himself, the thought sitting bitterly in the back of his mind; a scab he can’t seem to stop picking—proclaiming for all the world to hear about what a _bore_ Hermann’s turned out to be; disappointment flashing across his face. 

It is thusly understandable, then, that Hermann is more than a tad bit prickly when Geiszler is assigned to the Shatterdome he’s working in, merely a few years later. Time may heal all wounds, but some take longer than others—and this one, Hermann’s less than happy to admit, is a deep cut.

“Respectfully, _sir,_” Hermann cuts in, raising his chin; not quite glaring at Geiszler, by the Marshal’s side, but—_close._ “Geiszler and I are—”

“_Acquainted,_” the biologist says, with a wink and a flourish of his arms—oh, god, he’s gone and got a _tattoo,_ garish and dreadful; no, _multiple_ tattoos, and _kaiju,_ at that—"been a while, _Herms._“ He wiggles his fingers at Hermann; tone, mockingly friendly.

Hermann glowers; grips his cane tightly and throws back his shoulders. “I _cannot_ work with this—this _man_ in my proximity,” he says, stiffly. “Marshal, is there no one else he can share a lab with—?”

“He’s with you,” the Marshal interrupts. “That is _final,_ Gottlieb. Gentlemen—good day.”

Hermann huffs, watches the tall man stride away; Geiszler, still standing there, gives him a smug look. Hermann grits his teeth; grinds out, “Geiszler, if you _dare_ get any of my equipment dirty—”

Geiszler laughs. It is not kind or nice. “Well fuck you too, Hermann,” he shoots back. “I’ll be minding my own business, _thanks._”

And then he’s moving, running back and forth to place things on tables and in cupboards and, once, memorably, balanced precariously in between two chairs; Hermann stops watching then, returns to his boards, and thinks, perhaps, perhaps—he can survive this.

Geiszler begins to blare some god-awful excuse for music that sounds like someone let an asthmatic chicken screech into a microphone and added the sound of nails scraping against a window-pane as the backdrop. Hermann twitches, the chalk, in that instant, pressing just a _little_ to hard, and then snapping off in his hand.

He stares at the half remaining in his grip for a moment, and then descends the ladder, digging through a stack of papers in his desk drawer to unearth the complaint forms.

* * *

“‘Geiszler’s infernal racket is impeding my ability to work and his actions are costing valuable supplies'—really, Hermann?” Geiszler asks him, a few weeks later, a copy of the—first of many—complaint form Hermann submitted that first day.

Hermann, feeling petty—_he’s_ playing his “music” again—sets down his chalk and dusts his hands off just _so,_ sending a cascade of chalkdust onto the biologist, the white powder sticking to one of the smears of—thankfully neutralised—kaiju blood on his hideous shirt.

Geiszler scowls at him. “Uncalled for,” he snipes, and sets the paper down on Hermann’s desk.

A few minutes later, he’s back, a coil of kaiju intestine in gloved hand, and he looks Hermann right in the eye and drops it in the chair at Hermann’s desk.

“Geiszler—!” Hermann exclaims, first with shock, and then, again, with rage; “_Geiszler!_ You—you—you filthy little—!”

He nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to grab his cane, but once he’s got it, he’s practically sprinting after the _wretched_ little man, a snarl on his lips. Geiszler laughs, then, high and mocking, and ducks into the decontamination shower, slamming the door behind him before Hermann can get to him; grins.

For a second, Hermann stands there, shaking in rage; and then the haze of red clears just enough that he can think; offer Geiszler a vindictive little smile, and turn the shower on—_cold._

Barely audible through the door, Geiszler lets out a shriek, and then, sopping wet, looking for all the world like a drowned rat, glares at Hermann balefully.

Hermann turns away; a sudden, unexplainable urge to smile rearing its head.

* * *

Oddly, he can’t remember when _Geiszler_ becomes _Newton_—both in his mind and his speech, now; the former tinged with a fondness he cannot bring himself to be rid of, no matter how hard he tries; for it clings to the name like the kaiju viscera does to the biologist’s clothes.

It dawns on him in the fourth year; standing at the board, chalk poised to spill forth truths only he can decipher; in his periphery, Newton bounces between tasks, excitedly shouting observations into his voice-recorder; passion radiating from him like light from the sun, and Hermann thinks, idly, that Newton’s love, itself, is a bit like the sun.

And his love for the kaiju; Hermann can almost love them, himself, hearing Newton ramble about them passionately, a spark of joy in his eye; undampened, even when he’s almost died because of them so often.

What a foolish thing to do, to fall in love with Newton Geiszler, the man who loved monsters more than his own life.

At that, he nearly tumbles off the ladder.

“Whoa!” Newton shouts, rushing across the hazmat tape, “you okay there, Hermann?”

It takes a moment to steady himself, and when he does, he barely manages to croak, “Yes, quite—quite fine, Newton, thank you.”

Newton gives him a doubtful look. “Alright,” he says, “but if you need anything, just give a shout.”

“What I _need_ is for you to stop distracting me,” Hermann snaps, but it’s not got much bite, and Newton grins at him.

* * *

“Move in with me,” Newton says to him, two days after the war’s officially over.

Hermann stares at him. “You’re crazy,” he decides, and tips his head forward, sensing an oncoming nosebleed. Though he can’t see it, he can feel Newton grinning at him broadly. “Why?” he demands.

“Well,” says the other, and Hermann gets the distinct feeling that he’s ticking off the reasons on his fingers, “first of all, neither of us have a ton of money. Secondly, uh, I’m not sure distance is the best idea right now. And thirdly, I want plants but you’re the one with a green thumb; I’ve killed _cacti,_ Hermann, seriously.”

“I _know,_” Hermann grumbles. He’d managed to rescue and revitalise that poor cactus, but it was a close call. “I hope you’re aware, though, that those are horrible reasons.”

Newt hums. “I’m not hearing a no.”

Hermann gives a put-upon sigh. “Fine, nuisance. I’ll share a flat with you.”

“Aw,” Newton coos, “you’ve upgraded me to _nuisance._ Be still my beating heart.”

Hermann doesn’t dignify that with a response.

* * *

At some point, they fall into a pleasant domesticity; Newton’s presence as natural as breathing.

Hermann’s not sure if they’ve crossed a line; he’s not sure if there even _was_ a line to start with; if there was, though, it’s gotten moved, or erased, or _something,_ because they sit, pressed shoulder-to-knee on the couch, and Newton curls into his side when they sleep, and Hermann’s started to order them just one desert to share.

He’s not sure he has any desire to label it, but it’s nice.

He closes the book he’s been reading from, and presses his lips to the top of Newt’s head, pillowed on his shoulder.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [pacificrimdyke](https://pacificrimdyke.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
